“Who said anything about marriage?” I asked. “I am speaking of love, a different matter entirely.”
“Katrina…” He trailed off, frustration creeping back into his voice. He got to his feet. “What are you asking of me?”
I rose as well. “I am asking you to kiss me,” I said, “and what comes next can be whatever we wish it to be.”
“How many times must I tell you it is not that simple?”
“How many times must I tell you it can be?”
He closed his eyes, as though struggling with himself, and I waited as one poised atop a mammoth cliff to see what the outcome would be. To see if I would fall or soar.
Suddenly, swiftly, he closed the distance between us and took me in his arms, pressing his lips to mine. It was just as glorious a kiss as our first, yet somehow sweeter, as well. One kiss may not mean anything, after all. A second kiss, though … surely that was no accident or mistake or moment of weakness.
His hands roamed over the curve of my waist through my dress as my lips parted beneath his. He drew my hips tightly against his own, and I felt a thrill of warmth and pleasure in the depths of my stomach, and lower. I wanted to be closer to him, to feel every inch of him, even as I thought I might drown completely in all the many sensations of this moment. It was too much, and not enough.
Finally I understood what the poets and songwriters spoke of. I knew what it was to have a man take me in his arms because he loved and desired me, what it was to feel the same for him, so that our feelings amplified each other’s, and yes, I realized as his arms tightened around me, yes, this is what lovers’ legends are made of. This feeling.
He drew away and caressed my cheek with his hand. “Katrina,” he whispered, his eyes searching mine. I leaned forward to kiss him this time, and so we began again.
When at last we surfaced, I could not say how much time had passed—surely it had to be hours, or even days? But no, the shadows cast by the leaves above us had not changed, though the same could not be said for the two of us.
I clung to him, my head resting against his shoulder, never wanting to leave this place. I would spend my life anywhere so long as it was with him, I thought dreamily. In the end it was this thought that caused me to draw away. All the things I had read of love and passion had, too, carried a warning of the dangers to be found in falling too fast, in falling too far.
“And so what shall we do now, my Katrina?” he whispered against my hair.
Despite the sobering thoughts that lingered, I glowed at his words. My Katrina. “We shall do whatever we like,” I replied.
He chuckled, and I could feel the sound in his chest. “I can think of one thing I would very much like to do,” he murmured, “but that is no doubt the last thing we should do.”
I was silent, both nervous and excited by his words. I was not so sheltered that I had not managed to glean the details of the act of love, but I had never had reason to think about it much before.
But I thought about it then, and what it might be like, and even as the thought scared me I realized I might want that, too.
I released him and stepped back. “No doubt you are right,” I said.
“Katrina,” he said softly, his voice deadly serious now. I looked up to meet his eyes, green as the forest we stood in. “I … we should not be speaking so. Not when I have not asked for your hand.”
I struggled to compose myself. “Is that what you are going to do?”
He studied me carefully. “Is that what you want me to do?”
I closed my eyes. How had we gone from sharing kisses in the woods to speaking of marriage? Because Ichabod is an honorable man, I thought. He would march back up to the house and ask my father for my hand right now, if I wished it. “I … I do not know yet,” I forced myself to say.
Oh, it was easy to daydream about it: Ichabod declaring his love for me and presenting his suit to my father; to see us becoming man and wife, perhaps taking a small cottage in town; to imagine us making love each night then waking up together; having children …
I swallowed. It was all too much. I wanted it all, and it scared me. How could I want so much, so soon? How could I be swept away so fast? Was falling in love always this way?
He was right; I had always gotten everything I wanted. So I must be certain I truly wanted it, and that he truly wanted it. Better men and women than us had had their heads turned by a few kisses in a wooded glen.
“Not … not yet,” I said at last. “Let us wait, and … see.”
He sighed. “You have kept a cooler head than I, I see,” he said. “Yes. You are right. Though God knows how I shall live under the same roof as you and continue to be a gentleman.”
I smiled, though it quickly faded. “You are leaving soon.”
“Yes. I must.”
I took his hand, for I could no longer bear not to touch him.
“And what shall we do?” he asked again, tightening his fingers around mine. “Shall we go strolling arm in arm, to let the whole world know we are courting? Shall I call for you to walk into the village with me?”
“I would like nothing better,” I said.
“Nor would I,” he said.
Yet we both knew it could not be. Not while he still resided with us, anyway. My parents may have been lax, but not so lax as to let their houseguest court their daughter under their own roof.
After he had gone … maybe then. Maybe then the time would be right. We must wait.
We went hand in hand until we reached the edge of the woods and came within sight of the house, and then forced ourselves to separate.
11
Charlotte
As if by unspoken agreement, Ichabod and I avoided each other the rest of the day. He was taking his dinner out once again, and inwardly I lamented this even as I knew it was for the best. How would we ever act normally around each other now? We would need to learn to be actors worthy of Master Shakespeare’s stage, and soon.
We had a music lesson the next day, and it became nothing short of an exquisite torture. That we were alone in a room together was, suddenly, too much to bear. With my parents and the servants in the house we had, of course, to maintain a certain level of decorum, yet we took any opportunity we could to touch each other: when I leaned over his shoulder to see a sheet of music, or when he placed his hand on my abdomen to correct my breathing technique. Each touch, however fleeting, was accompanied by a swift smile, a light in our eyes, and it was all I could do to keep from giggling the entire time.
As the lesson ended and we were forced to leave our lovely little nest of a room, I contemplated what to do with the rest of my day. Should we try to escape out to the woods together?
However, as luck—if that was the correct word—had it, practically as soon as I stepped out of the music room my mother called out. “Katrina,” she said, stepping into the hallway as she settled her bonnet on her head, “if you’re through, come into the village with me. Mevrouw Jansen has sent word that Charlotte has returned, and I am overdue for a proper visit with her in any case.”
I brightened. Charlotte was back!
Charlotte’s mother was Sleepy Hollow’s midwife and herb-woman, and consulted with all the women of the village—and many of the men—about medicines and childbirth, among other things. She had long been a friend of my mother’s, and so Charlotte and I had become close friends as well. Charlotte was a year older than I and had learned well at her mother’s knee: she would no doubt take over Mevrouw Jansen’s duties one day.
“Do excuse us, Mr. Crane,” my mother called to Ichabod over my shoulder. “We shall likely take our lunch in town and so may not be back ’til later.”
He bowed gallantly in my mother’s direction. “I am ever despondent without the company of two such beautiful ladies, but I shall be forced to make do,” he said with a smile.
My mother chuckled. “Away with you, sir,” she said fondly, and gestured for me to follow her.
I went quickly upstairs for my
own bonnet, then rejoined my mother at the front door, from which we walked out to the Albany Post Road and set out for the village proper, leaving Nox at home. On a fine summer day such as this—warm but without the sweltering heat that had marked the previous few days—a lovely walk was just what was wanted.
“I shall be sad to see Mr. Crane go,” my mother said as we began our walk. “Such a pleasant fellow. Hopefully he can be persuaded back to dine with us.”
“I am sure of it, as he seems to so appreciate our hospitality,” I said, fighting to hold back my glee. My mother liked Ichabod and enjoyed his company—surely this would bode well.
We chattered idly the rest of the way, soon arriving at the Jansen cottage, situated in a fairly prominent spot just off the main street.
Mevrouw Jansen’s face lit up as she answered my mother’s knock. “Why, my dear Anneliese,” she said, reaching out to embrace my mother, “so lovely to see you, as always!”
“And you, Sofie,” mother said, returning the embrace.
“And Katrina, too,” Mevrouw Jansen said, embracing me as well. “Charlotte will be delighted. She was just speaking of coming to call on you.”
“She is always welcome anywhere that I am,” I said.
“The feeling is mutual, dearest Katrina,” a familiar smooth, low voice said. Charlotte appeared beside her mother in the doorway. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Well, now, let us not all congregate in the doorway,” Dame Jansen said. “Come in, the both of you! Charlotte, dear, do pour the tea—how fortunate you just put the kettle on.”
“I made some scones this morning as well,” Charlotte said, disappearing into the large kitchen—its size necessary for the work they did—and returned with a plate of pastries, which she set on the side table as our mothers were settling in.
“Let me help you with the tea,” I said, following Charlotte into the kitchen. I poured four cups, and she took two into the parlor where our mothers had already launched into a fresh round of gossip. She returned to the kitchen, picking up her own cup as I took mine—as well as the two scones she’d set aside for us—and followed her out the back door into the herb garden. One of the many things Charlotte and I shared was our desire to be outdoors as much as possible.
We both sighed contentedly upon taking seats on the grass, then laughed at the similarity of our reactions. “So tell me, Katrina,” Charlotte said, once our giggles had subsided. “How have you been spending this fine summer thus far?”
“With books in the outdoors, as usual,” I said, pulling my bonnet from my hair.
“I hear there is a guest in the Van Tassel house of late,” she said, raising her eyebrows inquisitively. She took a bite of her scone.
I felt my cheeks redden. “Mr. Ichabod Crane, lately of Connecticut. He is to be the new schoolteacher.”
“No doubt you have also been busy with such a supposedly handsome guest,” she teased.
I laughed. “Indeed, but not in the way you are thinking. He has been giving me music lessons, and will be providing similar instruction to others in the village.”
I could not say why I did not tell Charlotte the truth. She was no gossip; anything I told her remained in the strictest confidence and always would. Even so I held back.
Charlotte eyed me curiously for a moment, as though she knew that I was not being entirely truthful. And perhaps she did. She knew me better than anyone, certainly; but, too, Charlotte had an uncanny way about her. She had a way of knowing things she ought not know and had never been told. As wonderful as her mother was with herbs and remedies, it had always seemed to me that Charlotte had a different—and far greater—gift.
A memory flashed through my mind unbidden: the day our friendship with Brom had ended; the day Brom had flung a rock at Charlotte, one that had hit her cheek—narrowly missing her eye—and drawn blood. More harmful even than the stone, though, was the word he had cast at her: witch.
And a mere year later, he had the nerve to steal a kiss from me.
I looked away uncomfortably from her amber-colored eyes and took a big bite of my scone to cover my lie—so big that I almost choked.
“Indeed,” Charlotte said at last, and even in that one word I could hear she knew there was more I was not telling her; but, like the true friend she was, she would forgive me. “I must hear you sing again soon, then. No doubt you shall sound more beautiful than ever.”
“Perhaps,” I said, swallowing my scone and forcing myself to smile. “Is your aunt much improved, then? Surely she must be, since you have returned to Sleepy Hollow.”
“She is, thank you,” Charlotte said. “She has rebounded remarkably well, and was quite ready for me to stop hovering.”
I laughed. “I am sure it was your expert care that allowed her to get well again so quickly.”
“I like to think so, and I like to think that is why my mother sent me.”
“Then she did right to do so, even though I have missed you.”
“And I you,” Charlotte said, reaching out and clasping my hands in hers. “Now come, tell me: what else have I missed while I was away?”
I rolled my eyes. “Nothing, truly. Icha—Mr. Crane coming to town has been the most interesting thing of any note.”
But if Charlotte noticed my slip, she chose not to comment. “Has Brom Bones given you any peace?” she asked.
“The opposite, in fact,” I said glumly. “Why, just a few days ago he came very close to declaring himself to my father.”
Charlotte gasped. “No!”
“Yes. We were at luncheon besides. I almost vomited into my plate.”
She laughed. “I can well imagine.” She sobered almost instantly, however. “You do not think your father would betroth you to him, do you?”
“He seemed in favor of the idea, unfortunately,” I said slowly, “but I cannot imagine him betrothing me to anyone against my will. Once he knows how opposed I am, I am certain he will no longer consider it. My mother told me as much, when we spoke of it.”
“Your mother knows your feelings, then?” Charlotte asked. “That, at least, is a relief.”
“Very much so,” I said. “She said she would speak to my father about it.”
“You need not worry, then, it sounds.” She smiled. “And as the finest heiress in Sleepy Hollow, you may expect a parade of suitors.”
This was said without bitterness, yet I could not have blamed Charlotte if she was bitter. At nearly twenty years of age, there had been no contenders for her hand, and there likely never would be. Brom had seen to that.
“Enough talk of men,” she said after a moment had passed in silence. “Best not let them occupy our thoughts more than they absolutely must, I daresay. Tell me of these books you have been reading to while away the summer days.”
Needing no further prompting, I launched into an explanation of the premise of Macbeth, promising to lend her my copy once I had finished reading it.
“Someday I should like to go to London, to the homeland of Master Shakespeare, and see such a play performed,” Charlotte said wistfully. Her tea and scone gone, she lay back on the sun-warmed grass, her fiery, nearly waist-length hair spreading out about her head in a red-gold halo.
“We need not go as far as London to see a play,” I said. “New York is a good deal closer, and it has theatres enough. But I would see London someday, too. And so we shall do just that, Charlotte. Just the two of us.”
She glanced over, her expression apprehensive. “Do you promise, Katrina?”
Her tone seemed oddly heavy for our talk of daydreams on a summer’s day. “I do,” I said. “If we want it to be so, then it shall.”
She smiled. “Yes. So it shall.” She changed the subject again. “And what of your nightmares? Do they still visit you?”
I shivered. Charlotte was the only one to whom I had confessed my dreams of the Horseman, and how they terrified me. “Yes,” I said. “More often of late, in truth.”
Charlotte considered this. “
I wonder what it means. That you should have these dreams at all, and that they should be increasing now.”
“It does not mean anything,” I said. “The people of this town are liable to discuss the Hessian at any given moment. It is no wonder he is often on my mind, and on everyone’s minds, I should think.”
What I didn’t tell Charlotte was the dream had changed for the first time, had included Ichabod. To confess that I would no doubt need to confess several other things.
“Perhaps … though I think it is not so simple,” she said. “I do not know as much of dream divination as I might like.”
“You must not worry, I pray you,” I said. “Other than some nights of interrupted sleep, the dreams do me no harm and are of no true consequence.”
I could tell Charlotte did not agree, but she let the matter drop.
We chattered on for the next half hour or so, making plans to have a picnic by the river in the coming days. Charlotte inquired after Nancy, and we spent some time trading memories of our time as children together.
It felt like no time at all had passed when my mother called into the garden for me. “Come, Katrina,” she said. “It is time we took our leave. We must stop at the market yet.”
Reluctantly Charlotte and I rose from the sun-drenched grass. “Until next time, then,” I said to my friend.
“Soon,” Charlotte promised.
I turned to join my mother inside, but Charlotte grabbed my arm, detaining me. “Wait,” she said, her voice low. “Be careful, Katrina.”
I stared at her in confusion. “Whatever do you mean? Be careful of what?”
Her fingers tightened on my arm. “Just … be careful,” she repeated. “I … I cannot say why, but … you should take care all the same. I think there may come a moment when you will know what I mean.”
I stayed silent as she released me. I had learned long ago never to question these odd things Charlotte said, be they warnings or predictions or simply strange moments of intuition. Still, it could be frustrating. When she spoke thusly, she usually did not know the why of it any more than her listener, only that she had a feeling she must impart. And she was scrupulous only to say something in front of those she knew she could trust. She didn’t dare speak of her uncanny ways in front of anyone else.
The Spellbook of Katrina Van Tassel Page 6